Done With You
by Princess Pyromaniac
Summary: My first story! It's a rainy day at Arthur's place, and he's letting his mind wander. Parting ways with America is something he never thought he'd have to do, and it's harder than he thought. Mostly just a drabble, based on a true story. Rated T for England's little ideas, and his pottymouth. Please review, but don't flame!


England hated America. The young, blonde-haired, blue-eyed nation had meant everything to him, because Arthur Kirkland had raised the child as his own, taught him everything he knew, influenced him greatly. Without England, America would've become a sniveling frog just like Francis Bonnefoy, or maybe even dead, shriveled up in some gutter; abandoned, forgotten, and disgusting. That second idea seemed pretty satisfying, given how mad England currently was at who he used to call his best friend and brother. He thought that they would be together forever. Alfred had promised, even. He'd brought his chubby little pinky up to meet Arthur's, and they'd both looked deep into each other's sparkling eyes and swore that they would never part.

So why would he lie like that?

Alfred grew older and started changing. He formed his own opinions about things and opinions about Arthur's opinions, which he never failed to state loudly. England would always glare at him angrily and blow it off, of course, but he never realized just how independant America was becoming. So he didn't like his older brother's cooking. So what? So he stopped sneaking into Arthur's bed when he had nightmares. So what? So he was becoming loud, obnoxious, and idiotic. So he was acting exactly the opposite of the way Britain had taught him. So what?

"So bloody what?!" Arthur yelled to himself, tired of reminiscing about the little bastard who lied, cheated, stuffed himself with food, and partook in other revolting activities. Tired of reminiscing about what once was. The green-eyed nation gritted his teeth and flung the half-empty wineglass he was holding at the wall of his kitchen, where he was sitting at a table next to the window, staring out at the black, stormy, sky. The glass hit the wall with a satisfying shatter, and red liquid flew around the room, staining furniture like blood. For a split second England imagined it was Alfred's blood as he dismantled him with his own hands. England smiled distantly at the thought, then shook his head, surveying the shards of glass eveywhere, and the wine that would probably never fully come out of his previously spotless furniture.

"Shit." He murmured, and rubbed his eyes. Dumb America. This was his fault.

"Every wrong decision I make is your fault, Alfred. You messed up bastard." He hated how his heart was racing so fast, too fast. He needed to calm down; what was done was done, and he couldn't do anything about it. However, Arthur's heart wasn't agreeing with his brain, so it picked up its pace and kept pounding, pounding, pounding.

"Arsehole." England muttered, placing a hand on his chest and taking a few deep breaths, which had yet to help. "If I go into bloody cardiac arrest and die, that's your fault, too."

No number of calming methods he was attempting were working. He felt his breath quicken, and gripped the table, standing up quickly. America was gone, and he was fine by himself. Fine. Fucking fine.

"Fine." Arthur told himself, and stumbled towards the pantry, where he proceeded to begin to make tea, making sure to step and crunch on every piece of stray glass he could lay his boots on. If he imagined hard enough, it was little Alfie's soft, brainless skull. England took little pleasures in everything he could; his heartbeat was still racing, humming, even. The tea kettle hissed, seemingly mocking Mr. Kirkland, and Arthur slammed closed his cabinet door in anger. Why was this so hard? He would never talk to that gluttonous pig America ever again, he was sure of that. He didn't need to. He hated every arrogant cell in America's self-centered, ugly, body. Arthur was glad he was finally rid of that vermin. He was free. Right?

The dirty-blonde nation downed his tea, burning his throat horribly. He'd been so pissed that he hadn't thought about the heat of the drink, and essentially was paying the price.

"Goddammit!" He shrieked, and felt his heart rate increase again. Why couldn't he just calm down? This was a good thing. Even if England had just burned his throat, broken a wineglass, stained his kitchen, and started to feel like he would have a panic attack, it was still a good, bloody thing. Arthur wasn't going to call Mr. Jones and ridicule him, oh no, he was much more of a gentleman that that. He was just going to silently slip away the two's ties, and become a successful nation by himself. Alfred could do what he wanted; become great and huge, or grow frail, weak, and eventually die. Arthur did not care either way. He did not care one little bit. Right?

"...I want him to fail." England admitted quietly, and it was true. He wanted to see the younger nation's strength fizzle away, until he was so pathetic he could no longer even beg for another's help. Arthur would just laugh bitterly and watch with glee. In fact, he got happy butterflies even thinking about America's downfall. It was going to happen, and he would see to it personally.

"No! Wait." He bit his lip, having an argument with himself. Logic took over once again, and England scolded himself for drinking so much. These ludicrous thoughts were coming from the alcohol, surely. ...Surely? "I'm not interacting with that fool anymore. He can live, he can die, I don't care."

England started to reassure himself.

"I have other friends to interact with. There's..." England would never 'interact' with frog-face Francis. "There's... Well, I have friends. There's always..." The twenty-three year old nation was drawing a blank. There wasn't really anyone. "Of course there's someone! There's... There's Flying Mint Bunny. Right?"

Arthur knew the little green rabbit was all in his head. He also knew that even if it had been real, that would hardly count as a 'friend'. But... Other than the bunny and America, he really was all alone. England filled his tea mug up with more red wine right after the realization, and gulped it down. He poured more.

"I... I hope America's having a horrid day. I hope he falls into a river on his own land and drowns." Arthur was seriously getting annoyed with his heartbeat.

"If you're going to send me to the hospital," He said bitterly to it, "Then you'd better do it now, or slow down." He drank more, feeling horrible and so alone that he'd started talking to his own organs.

"Don't feel bad." He told himself, and smiled a bit. "America has even less friends than you. He may not know it, but everyone thinks he's an arsehole. The arsehole of the world." Arthur's little talk with himself got him nowhere, and as lightning flashed outside the window, he realized being alone was going to take a mighty bit of time getting used to. He now had no one, no one at all. He gave into the bitter race of pulse, and staggered dizzily into his living room, taking the bottle of liquor with him. He shut off the kitchen light as he exited it, and flopped onto his couch, leaving the large, empty house in darkness. He stared bankly at the ceiling and faced his feelings.

"That's it." He started shakily. "We're over. Done. He's lied to me. And now he's probably out, having a celebration. Congratulations, America. I mean this in the sincerest of ways. I loved you to death, but obviously I failed in raising you somehow. If I was so horrid of a friend to the point where you'd break our promise and wage war, then I'm glad you escaped me. I hope you get fatally wounded in some freak accident and die a slow, painful death. I hope your small intestine decides to fight against your large one, and then the rest of your insides feel compelled to join in. I hope you get so drunk at your next party that you humiliate yourself in front of everyone and they decide to never talk to you again, so you drink yourself to oblivion. I hope you remember every nice thing I've ever done for you, I hope you remember that promise that you broke, and then one morning you'll discover what an impure monster you are and you hang yourself, hurting to the very last nanosecond of your life. I hope you realize what a wretched person you are, someday, and I know I shouldn't, but I hope that that realization tortures you to your grave. I hope you never forget it, you filthy pig."

Britain was feeling a bit better at that point, but there was something inside him still boiling up.

"What is it?!" He yelled angrily. "If I'm going to cry, let me fucking cry."

England didn't cry. He laid on the couch, listening to the rain, hoping he'd wake up from a nightmare, or come to some unrealistic realization. Or at least fall asleep, or combust, or transform, or feel something other than this strange, hollow agony. He felt like he was in shock. That must've been it. He waited and waited and waited for some creator of the universe to take pity on him and change something, even something little. But no one did a thing. Arthur layed there, his eyes open and dry, breathing steadily. The black sky got blacker, and the pounding rain pounded harder. The wine bottle sat patiently on the table, and Arthur didn't pick it up once during those hours of shock. His mind was wandering; he wasn't really thinking about Alfred at all, but he was thinking about lots of other delirious things that would come from the mind of a madman. England was numb, though, and he didn't once think about what else he could be doing. The hours got longer, and still Arthur didn't move, not even when someone called his cell. Not even when someone called his home, minutes later. Not even when his cell rang again, then his home, then his cell, and so on. He thought maybe he even heard someone pounding on the front door, but he dismissed it as thunder.

Arthur Kirkland remained on his little couch, staring upward, into the early hours of the morning. Eventually his eyes slid closed and he succumbed to a feverish, dreamless sleep. He did not have nightmares. He was not woken up by the whisper of Alfred F. Jones. He was really and truly alone, and he was really and truly fine with that.

The next morning, or really afternoon, Arthur woke up hungover and late for the world meeting. But he also woke up the independant United Kingdom, and he was fully satisfied with himself.

* * *

**A/N: Yay, my first story here! This is based on something that actually happened to me and my friend, me in the position of Arthur. So I was kind of freaking out when I wrote this. ...Should I continue? I'm not sure. Please review and help me!**


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